The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
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LOW MOOR IRON WORKS. |
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 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
265
LOW MOOR IRON WORKS.
Ye that have trembled with the nerves unstrung,
The theme neglected which you should have sung;
With fearful gloom the mind encircled round,
Or sunk in fears amid the deep profound;
Pardon the timid mind that now indites,
The pen that trembles as your poet writes.
'Tis not of stars, nor distant orbs I sing,
Parnassus' mountain, nor the muses' spring;
Nor smoking Ætna, nor the constant light
Of Strombolo, that gilds Sicilian night.
A thousand wants, a thousand fears are mine,
A bard that has to struggle for the Nine;
But hence, ye cares—anxieties avaunt—
Be drown'd, ye sorrows, and be banish'd, want;
False fancied ills, disturb no more this breast,
For whilst I treat of genius I'm blest.
The theme neglected which you should have sung;
With fearful gloom the mind encircled round,
Or sunk in fears amid the deep profound;
Pardon the timid mind that now indites,
The pen that trembles as your poet writes.
'Tis not of stars, nor distant orbs I sing,
Parnassus' mountain, nor the muses' spring;
Nor smoking Ætna, nor the constant light
Of Strombolo, that gilds Sicilian night.
A thousand wants, a thousand fears are mine,
A bard that has to struggle for the Nine;
But hence, ye cares—anxieties avaunt—
Be drown'd, ye sorrows, and be banish'd, want;
False fancied ills, disturb no more this breast,
For whilst I treat of genius I'm blest.
When first the shapeless sable ore
Is laid in heaps around Low Moor,
The roaring blast, the quiv'ring flame,
Give to the mass another name:
White as the sun the metal runs,
For horse-shoe nails, or thund'ring guns;
The trembling hair-spring of a watch,
An anchor, or a cottage latch—
Most implements the farmers have,
And those of steamers on the wave;
The tailor's needle, or the shell
That levell'd once where princes dwell;
The engine, boiler, cobbler's awl,
The carronade, the pond'rous ball;
The place where steam first moves his wings,
The nails in beggars' shoes and kings';
The anchor's chain, the fisher's hook,
The sword—the hatchet—and the crook,
The sounding anvil, all the blades,
The cause of many thousand trades;
No pen can write, no mind can soar
To tell the wonders of Low Moor.
Is laid in heaps around Low Moor,
The roaring blast, the quiv'ring flame,
Give to the mass another name:
White as the sun the metal runs,
For horse-shoe nails, or thund'ring guns;
266
An anchor, or a cottage latch—
Most implements the farmers have,
And those of steamers on the wave;
The tailor's needle, or the shell
That levell'd once where princes dwell;
The engine, boiler, cobbler's awl,
The carronade, the pond'rous ball;
The place where steam first moves his wings,
The nails in beggars' shoes and kings';
The anchor's chain, the fisher's hook,
The sword—the hatchet—and the crook,
The sounding anvil, all the blades,
The cause of many thousand trades;
No pen can write, no mind can soar
To tell the wonders of Low Moor.
Wrapp'd in dark clouds that curling rise on high,
Mix'd with the quiv'ring flames of ev'ry dye,
Noble in blackness, great, and wide, and deep,
Not like mankind, thou never art asleep;
Thy sun-white flames for years have been awake,
Thy mighty hammers all the mountains shake—
Here from the mine, as when Mount Ida's flame
Lighted the coal, and liquid iron came;
Thy coal, thy stone, and Craven's flinty rock,
Join'd with the powerful blasts, the hammer's shock,
Mould into masses, which shall ever stand,
Or to improve, or to defend our land.
In every clime, through every varied zone,
Throughout the world thy heavy guns are known:
From the Pacific to the Indian shore,
Nations have heard their dread tremendous roar.
Here, wond'ring strangers, while they view around,
See mighty moulds promisc'ous on the ground:
Struck with astonishment they wildly gaze,
Amid thy thunders and each quiv'ring blaze.
Here lie the cannon, peaceful, all asleep,
Which yet shall thunder on the mighty deep;
The mortars there, and bombs of every size,
Which yet with flames shall streak the distant skies.
Mix'd with the quiv'ring flames of ev'ry dye,
Noble in blackness, great, and wide, and deep,
Not like mankind, thou never art asleep;
Thy sun-white flames for years have been awake,
Thy mighty hammers all the mountains shake—
Here from the mine, as when Mount Ida's flame
Lighted the coal, and liquid iron came;
Thy coal, thy stone, and Craven's flinty rock,
Join'd with the powerful blasts, the hammer's shock,
267
Or to improve, or to defend our land.
In every clime, through every varied zone,
Throughout the world thy heavy guns are known:
From the Pacific to the Indian shore,
Nations have heard their dread tremendous roar.
Here, wond'ring strangers, while they view around,
See mighty moulds promisc'ous on the ground:
Struck with astonishment they wildly gaze,
Amid thy thunders and each quiv'ring blaze.
Here lie the cannon, peaceful, all asleep,
Which yet shall thunder on the mighty deep;
The mortars there, and bombs of every size,
Which yet with flames shall streak the distant skies.
The place where armour by the gods was form'd,
Ere round old Troy the Grecian warriors storm'd,
Was silent to the echoes of each stroke,
And noise of hammers, heard amid thy smoke.
Here pow'rful levers raise the pond'rous guns,
And pulleys, where a boy can play with tons.
How slow, yet sure, the boring wheels appear,
And soon the new-form'd cannon glitters there;
But should a flaw within the piece be found,
When it has mov'd ten thousand times around,
Soon with the massive ball, the piece is broke—
The whole foundation trembles with the stroke.
Ere round old Troy the Grecian warriors storm'd,
Was silent to the echoes of each stroke,
And noise of hammers, heard amid thy smoke.
Here pow'rful levers raise the pond'rous guns,
And pulleys, where a boy can play with tons.
How slow, yet sure, the boring wheels appear,
And soon the new-form'd cannon glitters there;
But should a flaw within the piece be found,
When it has mov'd ten thousand times around,
Soon with the massive ball, the piece is broke—
The whole foundation trembles with the stroke.
268
Since thy first smoke arose and infant blast,
What hosts have fled, what hostile days have pass'd—
What guns once thine are buried in the deep,
Where anchors, balls, and many a sailor, sleep;
Their fury quench'd in ocean's deepest bed,
With worlds of billows rolling o'er the dead.
What hosts have fled, what hostile days have pass'd—
What guns once thine are buried in the deep,
Where anchors, balls, and many a sailor, sleep;
Their fury quench'd in ocean's deepest bed,
With worlds of billows rolling o'er the dead.
Thy strong artill'ry, which at Woolwich lies—
Should its arsenal once in fury rise,
Nations would tremble, fleets and navies fly,
For there Britannia stores her thunder by—
There pyramids of balls for battle form'd,
By which each fortress of our foes is storm'd;
The bursting bombs of every size are there,
To guard the land Britannia holds so dear.
Should its arsenal once in fury rise,
Nations would tremble, fleets and navies fly,
For there Britannia stores her thunder by—
There pyramids of balls for battle form'd,
By which each fortress of our foes is storm'd;
The bursting bombs of every size are there,
To guard the land Britannia holds so dear.
When Romans sway'd the sceptre o'er this land.
Near some small brook the infant blast was fann'd;
The boughs of trees were cut to melt the ore,
Cent'ries ere Britons heard a cannon roar.
But what a change—in sixteen hundred years,
No more the flinty or the brazen spears;
The art of war to such perfection grown,
Death flies on air, and sweeps whole squadrons down.
But let the dead the iron balls have slain
In dust among the warriors remain;
These times of peace require a milder song,
Than when through carnage armies march along:
The days are past when dreadful terror smil'd,
The useless balls are rusting where they're pil'd,
Silent the cannon, peaceful all the hosts,
And long eighteens now form a line of posts.
Thousands of these that on the batt'ry spoke,
To form a railway, will be shortly broke;
The rusty engines that for years have stood,
Shall be conducive to the public good—
Castings of old machin'ry shall be sought,
Melted again and into action brought;
The rapid wheels far fleeter than the wind,
Shall leave the show'r in distance far behind.
Swift as the rapid stock-dove, engines fly,
Gliding as smooth as meteors in the sky:
The shining salmon, near the Mersey caught,
With wings of steam shall be so swiftly brought,
The poor can buy them when they get so cheap,
And show their freshness as they try to leap.
The grocer, when his sugar is all sold,
When coffee's out—if he has got the gold,
May breakfast in old Leeds—the paper take,
And land in Liverpool without a shake;
His lunch at Manchester may take at ten,
Buy goods in Dale Street—then home again—
His goods all safe, he guards them on the way,
No lessen'd weight, and not one hour delay.
Near some small brook the infant blast was fann'd;
The boughs of trees were cut to melt the ore,
Cent'ries ere Britons heard a cannon roar.
But what a change—in sixteen hundred years,
No more the flinty or the brazen spears;
The art of war to such perfection grown,
Death flies on air, and sweeps whole squadrons down.
But let the dead the iron balls have slain
In dust among the warriors remain;
269
Than when through carnage armies march along:
The days are past when dreadful terror smil'd,
The useless balls are rusting where they're pil'd,
Silent the cannon, peaceful all the hosts,
And long eighteens now form a line of posts.
Thousands of these that on the batt'ry spoke,
To form a railway, will be shortly broke;
The rusty engines that for years have stood,
Shall be conducive to the public good—
Castings of old machin'ry shall be sought,
Melted again and into action brought;
The rapid wheels far fleeter than the wind,
Shall leave the show'r in distance far behind.
Swift as the rapid stock-dove, engines fly,
Gliding as smooth as meteors in the sky:
The shining salmon, near the Mersey caught,
With wings of steam shall be so swiftly brought,
The poor can buy them when they get so cheap,
And show their freshness as they try to leap.
The grocer, when his sugar is all sold,
When coffee's out—if he has got the gold,
May breakfast in old Leeds—the paper take,
And land in Liverpool without a shake;
His lunch at Manchester may take at ten,
Buy goods in Dale Street—then home again—
His goods all safe, he guards them on the way,
No lessen'd weight, and not one hour delay.
270
Ye panting horses, smoking on the road,
Mark'd with the whip, and struggling with your load;
Your race of cruelty will soon have done,
The mail without you soon will swiftly run,
The useless coaches, which have made you tire,
Shall form a sofa near some kitchen fire;
The Courier, Pilot, or the Duke of Leeds,
May cross the furrows fill'd with various seeds,
A load of turnips for the sheep convey,
Or bear the cattle, through the snow, some hay.
Mark'd with the whip, and struggling with your load;
Your race of cruelty will soon have done,
The mail without you soon will swiftly run,
The useless coaches, which have made you tire,
Shall form a sofa near some kitchen fire;
The Courier, Pilot, or the Duke of Leeds,
May cross the furrows fill'd with various seeds,
A load of turnips for the sheep convey,
Or bear the cattle, through the snow, some hay.
But see the engine on the railroad play,
Two hundred tons force swiftly on the way!
The Menai Bridge was late a wonder thought,
The greatest work mechanics ever wrought!
But locomotive power all else transcends,
And every proof the first endeavour mends—
Of much more use the cannon then will be,
Molten again, than roaring on the sea:
The world at peace, and commerce spreading far,
Nor dread of ruin, from the deeds of war.
Two hundred tons force swiftly on the way!
The Menai Bridge was late a wonder thought,
The greatest work mechanics ever wrought!
But locomotive power all else transcends,
And every proof the first endeavour mends—
Of much more use the cannon then will be,
Molten again, than roaring on the sea:
The world at peace, and commerce spreading far,
Nor dread of ruin, from the deeds of war.
O had I genius! that, Low Moor, to thee
The debt of gratitude should then be paid:
But care and grief, and deep anxiety,
Have thrown poetic vigour into shade.
The debt of gratitude should then be paid:
But care and grief, and deep anxiety,
Have thrown poetic vigour into shade.
271
Place of true genius, where invention springs,
And where the mathematics spread their wings:
Where swift revolve, like motion of the spheres,
The potent wheels, and all their pow'r appears;
A moving wonder!—where all things are brought
To such perfection, they o'erpow'r the thought—
Steady and swift the pond'rous masses turn,
And with their weight the solid axles burn.
Matur'd by sage experience, here combine,
And first of genius—great Low Moor, is thine!
Firm perseverance, and a master's skill,
Through change of time, have conquer'd every ill.
Thy fame for noblest engines far is known,
Where greatest skill and high perfection's shown;
Strong to propel the vessels on the sea,
Or move ten thousand wheels in harmony.
Strength of our commerce, these are truly fix'd,
Where coal and ironstone are richly mix'd,
In mines of wealth, an unexhausted store,
Such as for ages yet shall bless Low Moor.
And where the mathematics spread their wings:
Where swift revolve, like motion of the spheres,
The potent wheels, and all their pow'r appears;
A moving wonder!—where all things are brought
To such perfection, they o'erpow'r the thought—
Steady and swift the pond'rous masses turn,
And with their weight the solid axles burn.
Matur'd by sage experience, here combine,
And first of genius—great Low Moor, is thine!
Firm perseverance, and a master's skill,
Through change of time, have conquer'd every ill.
Thy fame for noblest engines far is known,
Where greatest skill and high perfection's shown;
Strong to propel the vessels on the sea,
Or move ten thousand wheels in harmony.
Strength of our commerce, these are truly fix'd,
Where coal and ironstone are richly mix'd,
In mines of wealth, an unexhausted store,
Such as for ages yet shall bless Low Moor.
What millions sterling have been made,
What tens of thousands have been paid,
What thousands here has genius fed,
Since the first blast has rear'd its head,
Crown'd with the flame that soar'd on high,
And cheer'd the midnight cloudy sky.
But for Low Moor, old Bradford town,
Had never like a city grown,
Her streets so wide had never spread,
Nor Commerce rais'd so high her head;
In days, and years, and times gone by,
Had not her sable coal been nigh—
Oh! for a Milton's pen—a Milton's mind,
To tell what friendship all the brothers bind.
What tens of thousands have been paid,
What thousands here has genius fed,
Since the first blast has rear'd its head,
Crown'd with the flame that soar'd on high,
And cheer'd the midnight cloudy sky.
272
Had never like a city grown,
Her streets so wide had never spread,
Nor Commerce rais'd so high her head;
In days, and years, and times gone by,
Had not her sable coal been nigh—
Oh! for a Milton's pen—a Milton's mind,
To tell what friendship all the brothers bind.
When winter comes, and shining nature sees
The frost hang hoary on the naked trees,
Amid the blackness, there is yet one charm,
In frost and winter storms, thy sons are warm;
How blest the workmen, though the labour's hard,
Their wages sure—the poor man's best reward;
Cheerful they sing, their labour is delight;
Blest with their families, at home at night—
While some uncertain, with an aching breast,
Far from their wives and children, take no rest;
O useful labour, mine of richest wealth,
Man's truest friend, the keeper of his health.
The frost hang hoary on the naked trees,
Amid the blackness, there is yet one charm,
In frost and winter storms, thy sons are warm;
How blest the workmen, though the labour's hard,
Their wages sure—the poor man's best reward;
Cheerful they sing, their labour is delight;
Blest with their families, at home at night—
While some uncertain, with an aching breast,
Far from their wives and children, take no rest;
O useful labour, mine of richest wealth,
Man's truest friend, the keeper of his health.
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |